


Our Time Before

by AnnetheCatDetective



Series: Tentaclan Saga [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they ever met...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This particular story does not include any Tentaspy, but it is a prequel to a different kind of tentaspy story, which those who follow me on tumblr have seen bits and pieces of.

SPAIN, AUGUST 1963

-/-

 

"I work alone." The Spy frowned, following his prospective employer down the hallway.

"I assure you, he won't get in the way." Montoya promised, his hands raised. Palms open, but sweaty. "Think of him as a... safety measure. A precaution. All he will do is watch your back. Only in case!"

The Spy didn't trust Montoya-- in fact, he had never trusted anyone who had hired him, a policy he credited with a lot of his success in staying alive in his field-- but he trusted Montoya's money. Whether he could trust Montoya's 'safety measure' in any way, he had yet to determine, but he had to allow that a fellow professional would have little reason to betray him if Montoya wasn't keeping any secrets.

"If I don't like him, I won't do the job." He said, but he followed Montoya down to the meeting room anyway.

"What is not to like? You won't see him! You won't spend any time with him! You will hardly even notice he is Australian!"

"You put my chances in the hands of some hairy bushman?" He hissed.

"I told you--"

By then, they were at the door. Montoya was opening it even as his voice died away.

He had been right about one thing-- the Spy never would have pegged the man waiting for them as Australian. He was lean-- handsome, in a sharp and hungry way, even. And no moustache.

"You're the little weasel who's arse I'm in charge of saving?"

"You can watch my ass all you like, Monsieur, but I can assure you, the one thing it will not need is saving." The Spy riposted, striding into the room. He faced the stranger from across Montoya's desk, his hand moving to the files there.

The stranger's covered it, just for a moment, before the man stepped back and raised his hands, a grin too predatory to be truly harmless and a gesture of 'only joking'.

"What is it you do, anyway?" The Spy asked, air dismissive in spite of the other man's speed and the strength of his grip. The just-as-quick withdrawal, the grin, and Montoya's presence all stopped him from answering with a knife.

"Sniper." The man shrugged. "Watching your back from across the way."

"I see. To kill me if I am caught? I am hurt. I have never compromised a client." He chuckled.

"To make sure no one gets close enough to catch you." The Sniper answered with a chuckle of his own. He reached out again, his thumb brushing the Spy's chin. "Just if you need it."

"I won't." The Spy caught the Sniper's retreating wrist, grip momentarily punishing. "But by all means try and spot me yourself. I'll be impressed if you come close to following my progress."

"Well. I look forward to impressing you." The Sniper laughed, shaking his wrist out.

It is three days yet before the Spy can get into the building, where the files Montoya wishes to pay him for are kept. Whatever they mean to him, it's a lot, for him to employ a sniper just to ensure the Spy can make a clean getaway. The Spy avoided his new coworker during that time, but he thought of him, once or twice, and his assessment is almost fond.

The man was cocky, or merely wanted to seem that way. Either his confidence is earned, delusional, or put-on, and the Spy hoped it is the first-- as satisfying as the second or even the third would be, he would rather his safety measure be among the best. He can't tease him for being green, if he's caught.

The man was attractive. A little weathered and burnt, a little wolfish and wiry. The Spy remembered the glint of sharp teeth, and pale eyes. A certain teasing quality.

The day before, they met by accident in the hotel bar.

"Just tonic water." The Spy ordered.

"You're not at work yet." The Sniper laughed at him, leaning on the bar.

"Close enough."

"Fair." He leaned a little closer. "You drink after work?"

"There is no 'after' work." The Spy let out a bitter laugh.

"Teetotaler?"

He shrugged, giving the Sniper a measuring look. "Not if I am offered an invitation, I suppose."

"Good. Consider this an invitation. After work. Pitcher of sangria."

"Tinto de Verano." The Spy shook his head. "And you will thank me later."

"Is that a promise?" The Sniper asked, and there was a low note to his voice.

The Spy smiled. "Maybe it is. That all depends on how you impress me."

\---/-/---

"Cheater." The Sniper whispered in his ear, as they returned to the Spy's hotel room to drink. "I had my eyes on you right up until you were invisible. Lucky me I found you again on the fourth floor when you were getting the door open."

"Nifty trick, isn't it? It doesn't last long, but it gets me past the cameras. So. You go to bed with men?"

The Sniper's predatory expression faltered a moment. "I don't... I don't talk about going to bed with men."

"But you do it."

"Sometimes. If I like the man. And I get the itch. Been a little interested since you told me I could watch your arse. Didn't need saving. What does it need?"

"You tell me." The Spy loosened his tie. "And pour me a drink while you're at it."


	2. Ch. II

They both knew the smart move was disappearing. It would be a while before anyone discovered the Spy had been inside, though, and the Sniper hadn't needed to pull the trigger...

They both knew the smart move was not just disappearing, but staying away from each other as well, but Montoya had skipped town, and for the Spy, that was good enough, to keep his hotel room for as long as the Sniper wanted to use it with him.

The Tinto de Verano wasn't strong. He felt more off-balance on account of the Sniper than he did from the drinks they'd put away... the radiating heat and the light scent of sweat when the other man drew close, that was heady and sweet as any alcohol could have been.

"I want to be fucked." He set his glass to the side, pulling the Sniper's hand to his chest. "Hard."

"I can do that." The Sniper swallowed, abandoning his own drink and pushing the Spy to the bed.

"Nightstand. Left side." The Spy directed, letting the Sniper move and maneuver him, reveling in the roughness of the hands that stripped his shirt away.

"Optimistic, were you?" The Sniper laughed, pulling out a condom and the jar of Vaseline.

"I know an offer when I get one." He grinned up, wolfish. "You didn't try to buy me a drink in that bar because you didn't want to fuck me."

"Oh, you bought these after I started sniffing around you? That is encouraging." The Sniper chuckled, softly, before pulling one of the Spy's legs up, brushing a kiss across his knee before even struggling his trousers off.

"I don't know how much more 'encouragement' you need, at this point." The Spy said drily.

"Like encouragement." The Sniper shrugged, cupping a hand over the Spy's crotch, squeezing until he could feel a responding twitch. "Like that. That's very encouraging, that is..."

"The condom is just in case, you know...? I mean, I don't need one." He shrugged a little as well, less comfortably than the Sniper had, helping to get the last of his clothes off.

"I don't exactly do this often." The Sniper chuckled ruefully, giving the now-bare knee another nuzzle. "Enough to know what I'm doing, not so much as to go picking up the clap or nothin'."

"By all means, take me how you like, then." The Spy smiled, shifting to reach for the Sniper, getting the other man's shirt open, until a hand over his stopped him.

"My turn, remember?" The Sniper leered, cupping his chin briefly before giving him another little push back down to the bed.

The Spy was perfectly happy to lie back and watch him strip. He itched for a chance to touch, but it was an itch he could wait to scratch, when just looking was a pleasure. Beneath his shirt, the Sniper's tan was barely paler than his forearms. His legs were a little paler still, but not very pale at that. When he turned to pick up his jeans and toss them back into a pile with the Spy's own discarded clothes, his ass was tight-- a little flat, but nice enough at that, still well-muscled if on the small side. More importantly, there was little enough difference that the Spy had to assume the Sniper was given to the occasional nude sunbath.

The Sniper returned to the bed, to grant the Spy an embrace, to leave long sucking kisses and sharp nips along his throat.

"How rough do you like it?" He whispered, breath hot, hands resting on the Spy's waist and thigh.

"As rough as you want. I can take it, I assure you. It's been too long, since someone's given me a good, hard fuck... You don't have to play kinky if that isn't your bag, cher, but you do not have to treat me with care, either."

"Mm." The Sniper shifted his grip on the Spy's thigh, spreading his legs open to nibble his way down the inside of his thigh. "Think I can take care of you, yeah."

The Spy groaned, let himself go lax under the Sniper's hands, just for the time being... Relaxation was something it was hard to allow himself, often impossible, but at least for the time it took them to satisfy each other, he was willing to relax as best he could. Physically, at least. The Sniper let go of him long enough to get the Vaseline open, and then there was a mouth, hot and wet, around his cock, and a slick finger tracing his hole.

He'd had one-night stands with more technical skill, but not ones he'd responded so well to... He liked the Sniper, in ways he wasn't used to liking people. He liked being chased just as much as he was in pursuit, for once. He liked the air of unmistakable masculinity that didn't come with all the hang-ups of machismo, the lean body that didn't put on muscle 'for show' but was built practically and neatly... He liked the scent of the man, liked how easy it was to sit across from him and drink. Liked to imagine the Sniper stretched out nude in the sun... and he very much liked the cock-- like the man himself, long, not over-sized, but proportioned well enough, just a little bigger than the Spy-- that finally slid into him.

The Sniper didn't take long to develop a good rhythm, hard, thrusts that rocked the Spy, pushed him back up the bed by degrees. He was flushed and sweating, breathing in hard grunts and gasps, biting at the Spy where he could reach and soothing the abused skin with kisses, with wordlessly whined apology even as the Spy urged him to go harder.

He came, with the Sniper's hand helping him along, and the Sniper's teeth deep in his shoulder, and the thrusts that followed were faltering, until finally the Sniper slumped against him with a sigh. A kiss was smeared across his shoulder, as the Sniper withdrew and rolled away.

"Sorry." He panted, with a loopy grin.

The Spy tried to get a good look at the bite, his own head still hazy. He reached up instead, feeling the indents, and the slickness of saliva, and the one little nick where his skin had been broken by one of the Sniper's odd fangs, a little thread of blood pink in the Sniper's spit.

"It's nothing." He chuckled, fumbling for his cigarettes. He lights two, before passing one to the other man. "I liked it, anyway."

"Mm." The Sniper took a drag, his eyes on the rising, mingling plumes of smoke. "You make a man want to stay the night. Not to invite myself..."

"Please, do. It would be ungentlemanly of me not to offer breakfast." The Spy bobbed his eyebrows. "Of course, if it is not breakfast you have in mind..."

"We could call it breakfast."

They both laughed, the Spy reaching out to run a hand across the Sniper's chest.

"Tell me something." He smiled, warm and wistful. "Nothing important-- Do not tell me your name, do not tell me of your family, or your home... But tell me something. I would like to remember you as more than merely a phenomenal fuck. Tell me something inconsequential that will make me smile to think of, someday. Tell me what you have liked about Spain."

"Liked that drink, and you." The Sniper shrugged, before giving the Spy a serious half-smile. "Dunno. The food. Love the food. Had something called sarsuela, other night. You like seafood?"

"It's fine." The Spy shrugged. "I haven't tried the sarsuela... maybe I will. It might convert me to seafood."

"It might." The Sniper laughed, reaching past the Spy for the ashtray. "What about you, then?"

"I went to a museum, after my meeting with Montoya and you, before the job... Beautiful. Even the building was beautiful."

"Dunno about art, myself." The Sniper smiled. "Guess we don't have so much in common, do we?"

"Maybe it's for the best. I mean... maybe it would be dangerous, to... to find we liked each other, for more than this."

"Yeah." He nodded.

"So. I do not care for seafood. Good bread, maybe-- and good coffee! I am mad for good coffee! But fish? I am indifferent."

"Strong coffee." The Sniper nodded again, smile going dreamy. "The coffee here's all right. The coffee in Italy's great."

"I didn't know you had been..."

"Killed a man in Parma. Not that I stayed in Parma long, but I made a couple stops on the way. Italy's got good seafood, in the south-- not that you care about that, reckon. And good coffee, just anywhere. And Parma's got... well, cheese."

"Please." The Spy frowned. "Do not talk to me about cheese from Parma. Beaufort, that is a cheese."

"You would get french about it." The Sniper rolled his eyes.

The Spy gave an uncomfortable cough. "Well. Clearly I cannot get too attached to you, if we are going to butt heads over cheese. And culture... what would we talk about?"

"I'm plenty cultured." The Sniper poked the Spy in the ribs. "I don't see the point in looking at a bunch of paintings of landscapes and sunsets when I could just go out and look at the real thing, doesn't mean I lack culture."

"Kangaroo boxing is not culture."

"Poetry, smart-arse."

"Oh." The Spy frowned a moment. "I appreciate poetry."

"Byron?"

"Baudelaire."

They avoided looking at each other for a moment, and the Spy smoked his cigarette down to the filter, before giving into temptation and rolling back into the Sniper's arms.

"Is Byron your favourite?" The Spy asked softly.

"Nah, not hardly. Not my least favourite, though."

"Ah. I will miss you, I think..."

"Don't talk about missing me. We'll have a couple days, and then we'll both move on." The Sniper insisted, his hand tightening on the Spy's arm. "And maybe our paths cross again, but it's not the end of the world, they don't. Men like us... men like us... we don't get happy endings."

"Because we are killers, or because we fuck men?"

"Take your pick." He snorted.

"So fatalistic." The Spy sighed. "At least let it be because we are killers. Do not punish yourself for taking a little pleasure where you find it."

"Okay. But I am a killer. You might only do it when you really have to, but my job's nothing but pulling that trigger. This is the only time I've been paid to not shoot a man, and it's only the luck of the draw I didn't."

"I think my skill has more to do with it than your luck, but all right. I am not asking you for a happy ending, I am only saying I will miss you, in my own way, when we part. Is that a crime?"

"Is where I'm from."

The Spy kissed his cheek to hush him, before settling into his own pillow to sleep.


End file.
